


Eye of the Beholder

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Team Free Will, bottom!Dean, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers investigate some mysterious deaths in Vermont and find some sisters far from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at some vague time during mid-season 5, my favorite “random adventure insertion” mark. Casefic FTW. I’m not American, and just assume that all small-ish American towns are surrounded by lots of handy forests to get supernaturally lost in. ; ) Thanks to **zooksies** for the beta and **measuringlife** for audiencing.

When Bobby proposes they scope out something strange in Bartonsville, Vermont, Dean and Sam are eager to take the case. It seems like a typical small-town supernatural problem: in the span of about two weeks, men and women have been found ripped to shreds, a degree of violence that baffled doctors. It’s relieving to have a cut-and-dried job to do, and Dean thinks the knowledge that this is something they can actually _fix_ will do wonders for their withering self-esteem.

Of course, this is before the storm.

“Man,” Dean complains, shielding his eyes from the rain, “who would waste their time killing people around here?” He is so, _so_ done with night hikes in typhoons.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Sam wonders, turning in a slow circle, aiming his flashlight at the trees. “Maybe whatever it is doesn’t hunt in the rain,” he continues.

“Maybe whatever it is realized that picking off people in small towns like this is _stupid._ ”

Sam gives him a placating look. “Aw, you’re just cranky because you’re wet.” He shines the beam right in Dean’s face. “You’ll feel better once you shoot something.”

Dean squints against the light. “Should start with you,” he mutters, brushing past his brother back into the night.

“Think about it,” Sam says, falling into step behind him. “We’ve been trying to find this thing for three days in a row. It was killing joggers on the trail left, right, and center up until the rains started. Maybe it just doesn’t like rain.”

“It had better like rain,” Dean quips over his shoulder. “If I find out I’ve been freezing my ass off for three days for nothing, I am gonna be _pissed._ ”

He can tell Sam’s rolling his eyes. “Right, of course. Mind its claws, okay, Sparky?”

Dean looks left, then right, then left again just in time to see it come at him. “Fuck!”

“Dean!” he hears Sam shout, probably dropping his flashlight and trying to get a clear shot. Dean can’t tell, of course, not with a hundred-fifty pounds of monster all up in his face, claws digging painfully into his shoulders and snakes — fucking _snakes_ — nipping his hands. He keeps his face covered, tries to kick off whatever it is before it decides to just chew right through his hands.

Gunshots. The hissing thing sounds more pissed than anything, but leaps off of Dean and goes for Sam. Dean sits up, sore hands fumbling for his own gun. He fires several rounds into the creature’s back, scoring hits before it pounces but ultimately failing to deter the attack on Sam. His brother gets more of a warning, though, and is able to get his hands on the creature’s wrists and hold it at bay. Kind of, anyway.

“Little help!”

Dean is already moving, producing his Bowie knife and leaning in to take a chunk out of Ugly. This is when he realizes that his hands are going numb. Shit. Probably some mild venom in that freak hairstyle.

He grabs the beast by the shoulder, anyway, yanking it back and striking out with the knife, slicing a couple of head-snakes right off. The others retaliate, adding some matching bite marks to his forearms, and even as Dean jumps back out of range Ugly is spinning around, tossing Sam aside and moving like lightning. When her claws rip into Dean’s side it just sort of feels like a warm sting — a warm, oozing sting. The second slash knocks him over, and he hits the mud, knife bouncing across the ground. Now Dean gets a good look at it; _she_ looks like something from a Greek horror film, like — like Medusa from “Clash of the Titans.” Dean tries to push himself back up, but his arms are not having it; he’s numb from the elbows down. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

On the other hand, Sam is now royally raging pissed. The thing about Sam being royally raging pissed is that Sam is _huge_. His gigantic baby brother sails right into Medusa, knocking her off her sandaled feet, and empties a clip into her after she’s sprawled in the mud. She rises to her hands and knees, hisses at them over her shoulder, and then disappears into the trees.

Sam is still for a few moments, an immovable object braced for any kind of supposed unstoppable force. When it’s obvious Medusa isn’t coming back, his brother fumbles for his phone. “Cas?” he shouts over the rain. “Cas, it’s Sam. If you’re not busy, I could really use a hand, here.”

Dean laughs at this, because his own hands aren’t even working, and squints through the darkness while Sam is on the phone, watching for signs of Medusa as his brother tries to approximate their location. He’s shivering when Sam drops to his knees, pulling off his own jacket to press against Dean’s wounded side. It’s probably bad; Dean can’t get a good look, but it’s probably pretty damn bad. He’s wobbly and feeling faint — can’t sit up straight and relying on Sam’s hands to keep him up and not bleeding all over the ground.

When Cas finds them, the angel and his brother collect their fallen gear and support Dean’s weight evenly between them so as not to jostle him too much. Now that the adrenaline is fading, his injuries are starting to hurt like a _bitch._

“Got her good as she got me,” Dean slurs, leaning heavily on his partners. “Totally ruined her hair.”

“Totally,” Sam agrees. “She’ll never be prom queen now.”

On his other side, Cas sighs, and then transports them back to the motel.

***

“You should have contacted me,” Cas lectures, hovering over the bed like some really pissed-off mother-hen. Dean wants to flinch beneath that gaze, except he can’t really move from where he’s propped up by the pillows, lost in a white-hot haze of pain and numbness.

Sam is in no mood, snapping, “What? We’re supposed to call ahead for every single errant monster of the day? We did manage to get along just fine before you showed up, you know.” His actions echo his anger; he dabs and disinfects and bandages with more force than necessary. Dean bites his cheek against the pain, watching _Cas_ and his brother swim about in his vision.

“Yes, you certainly seemed to be ‘getting along,’” Cas retorts. “Was this before or after that creature sliced him to ribbons?”

“Part of the _job_ ,” Sam bites out, pulling the bandage around Dean’s palm taut. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for your father? You want us to interrupt that search for every single case?”

Cas marches out of his field of vision into the bathroom. Dean hears the tap squeak to life; the angel returns to sit on his other side of the bed and brings a glass of water to his lips. Stubborn, Dean clamps his mouth shut because no fucking way is he playing out that romance novel schtick with Sam right there. “You are never certain of what you are leaping into,” the angel says.

“Look, I _know,_ ” Sam stresses, shaking two extra-strength codeine pills out of a bottle — and then Dean sort of has to open up because the bastards are tag-teaming him. “It got the jump on us, okay? What do you want me to say? That we’ll be careful? We’re always careful. Jeez, Cas. Anyway,” his brother sighs, sitting up straight, “now we’re grounded. So if you want to get back to whatever it was you were doing, feel free. We can’t move until he’s better.”

“What if it has your scent?” Cas challenges. “What if it decides to finish what it started? If it ripped that door off its hinges right now, could you protect him?”

“I’m right here, assholes,” Dean tries mumbling. He’s not sure how it sounds; speaking is like moving through molasses.

“So stay, whatever.” Sam sounds exasperated. “You can watch Dean while I do a supply run.”

“I will,” Cas replies, almost petulant. Dean would roll his eyes if he didn’t think they’d fall right out of their sockets.

“Help me,” Sam orders, reaching out.

“Care- _ful,_ ” Dean groans as they shimmy him into a more comfortable position. “God, I hate you both.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies easily. “Listen, the venom causes short-term, minor paralysis. You can’t really move just because the snakes bit you so many times. Should wear off soon.”

“Wonderful.”

“Now we just have to make sure your cuts don’t get infected. And you’re running a fever, so you should really try to sleep, okay?”

“I was _here for all this,_ ” Dean reminds them in a growl. He was paralyzed, not fucking deaf — something they would have realized had they stopped talking over his head like he was fucking four years old.

“I’ll be back,” is all Sam says, patting him gently on the shoulder before the mattress bounces up with the absence of his weight.

Cas doesn’t budge, though, and Sam is gone for five whole minutes before Dean can’t stand the silent staring anymore.

“Sorry,” he offers, shivering now that the excitement has calmed down. He can’t wait for the pills to kick in.

Cas stares at him for a beat longer, then replies in a terse voice, “I don’t want to receive phone calls like that anymore.”

Dean blinks. “What, calls for help?” He burrows further into the covers as best he can. “Thought not getting them was your whole hang-up, here.”

“I don’t want calls for help _after-the-fact_ ,” Cas clarifies. He touches the back of his hand to Dean’s forehead, then his cheeks and neck, checking his temperature and _god_ , this is exactly the kind of thing he didn’t want Sam to see. “Call me before,” this is a murmur against Dean’s brow, the angel’s lips cool on his feverish skin.

“Sure,” Dean acquiesces over a particularly violent convulsion.

Cas sits back. “You’re shivering,” he observes.

“I’m aware.” Dean tries injecting some extra sarcasm into the response, but his heart’s just not in it.

Without preamble, Cas divests himself of trench and tie and climbs in. Dean hisses in protest when the covers lift and let cold air in, but doesn’t say anything as Cas worms his way into Dean’s space, rearranging their limbs to better accommodate them both. The bed’s really too small for two people, but Cas makes it work by getting closer than should be possible. Minutes tick by; Dean feels the pills kicking in — a pleasant, warm detachment — and Cas is warm and soft, like a huge pillow, and Dean’s always been a sucker for creature comforts not normally allowed him.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks quietly.

The question brings him out of the sleepy fog long enough to answer with a soft, “Nn.” Then he’s gone again.

***

“ _Gorgons,_ ” Sam announces upon his entrance, hands full. He punctuates this by kicking the door shut behind him.

Dean and Cas look up at him from the bed; the angel is redressing his brother’s wounds with care and precision. Sam had shown him how after he’d caught Captain Cuddles and the Snuggles Kid red-handed two nights prior.

“So I wasn’t hallucinating,” Dean says. “She was totally out of ‘Clash of the Titans?’ So what, they don’t actually turn people to stone?”

“Stop fidgeting,” Cas commands, turning back to his task.

“Bobby picked a heck of a time to go on vacation,” Sam replies, dropping his burdens on the table. “Because this gets a little complicated.” He spreads the objects out — textbook, newspaper, muffins, coffee — and then distributes breakfast. Dean makes a face at the carrot muffin, but Sam is adamant. Besides, it’s two-against-one; it was easy to get Cas on board with helping his brother heal up proper.

“Complicated how?” Dean asks, taking a cautious first sip of piping hot brew as Sam retrieves the book and paper.

“Well, the thing with the Gorgons is that there are three of them. Three sisters, each sporting a deadly ‘do and a nasty set of brass talons. They’re strong, they’re quick, and they enjoy killing men.”

Dean stares at him. “I can’t believe you just said ‘deadly ‘do.’ Okay, great, so we’re the special on the menu, no big. We’re used to it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “except it gets better.” He flips open the textbook to his bookmarked page and drops it on Dean’s legs. “All three of them are deadly, but Medusa’s the one you hear about — the one from the Perseus myth. Her gaze could turn people to stone. _She_ ,” Sam points to the Gorgon in the illustration, “was mortal. However, with all the cases reported around here, not a single victim is unaccounted for, although they are, uh, in many pieces.”

“Okay,” Dean says, exchanging glances with Cas. “So Medusa isn’t…?”

“I don’t think so. If we’re using the myth as a guide, Perseus killed her, anyway. Her sisters, Euryale and Stheno, don’t have the eyes that stop you cold, and Perseus left them alone. But they’re _im_ mortal.” Sam waits while this sinks in, watches the two pairs of eyes staring at him round into large blue and green saucers.

“Damn,” Dean breathes. “Okay, um, so how do we kill them?”

Sam winces. “Exactly.”

“Great.”

“This is very unfortunate,” Cas adds.

“No kidding,” Sam replies, holding up the newspaper. “Remember how I said they were fast?” He taps a headline. “Looks like they’ve already moved to Pomfret. Bodies are piling up, same sort of attacks that were happening here until a few days ago.”

Dean cocks his head. “But then what was one of them still doing here, attacking us?”

“Perhaps she forgot something,” Cas brainstorms. “Or perhaps she was covering their tracks — against what, who’s to say? Or maybe they travel separately, one sister securing shelter for both of them.”

“They’re already ahead of us.” Dean sets his coffee aside and tries to push himself further up. “We have to get to Pomfret.” He bats at Cas’s hands, wearing that closed-off, determined expression that announces in bold letters I AM NOT OKAY BUT IF I THROW MYSELF AT THE JOB MAYBE SAM WILL NOT NOTICE.

“Dude.” Sam spreads his hands, indicating Dean’s predicament. “We can’t go anywhere until you’re better.”

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean insists. “It’s been almost two whole days; I’m good. By the time we get to Pomfret, I’ll be even better.”

“It’s _an hour away_.” Dean glares, resolute. Sam shakes his head. “Okay, yes, we can get settled in Pomfret. But if you think I’m letting you hunt Gorgons like this, your painkillers are too strong.”

“Well, you are not going after those psychos on your own, either. I can shoot the petals off a daisy, just point me at them.”

“What are you going to do, bleed all over them?”

“Oh, shut up. You saw what one of them did to me! Now you want to go after two by yourself?”

“Well, I’m not bringing an _invalid_ on a hunt!”

Cas clears his throat, prompting Sam and Dean to jerk their heads toward him and demand, _“What?”_

“I will be coming with you,” the angel says. “So that solves the problem of Sam hunting alone.”

Disarmed, Sam blinks at Cas a couple of times before giving himself a shake. “Fine, great. So, is that okay?”

Dean flops back with a wince. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s pack up and head for Pomfret. In the _car,_ ” he adds, keeping Cas’s fingers at bay.

***

The motels in Pomfret, Vermont aren’t anything unlike the ones in Bartonsville. Actually, when Dean pushes himself up from Cas’s lap, he thinks they’re still at the last motel’s parking lot for a second.

“You should lie down,” Cas advises.

“I’ve _been_ lying down,” Dean says through clenched teeth. Fuck, he thought having a goddamned boyfriend would mean an automatic addition to his side of an argument. Instead, he has two Sams. Why would anyone want two of Sam?

“Welcome to Pomfret,” his brother says, appearing at the rolled-down window. “Where the pie is warm and the locals are fighting to keep up appearances and don’t want to scare any tourists away.” He twirls two sets of keys around his finger. “Got you a queen this time.”

“What?” Dean catches the keychain thrown at him out of reflex. “Oh.” Sam knowing about him and Cas is never not going to be weird. “Oh,” he says again.

“Let’s get settled,” Sam urges, shouldering his bag. “There’s still some daylight left. We can set up base camp and search the hiking trails. It’d be consistent with their M.O.”

“Great, more hiking.” Dean slides carefully out of the car, favoring his wounded side. “And the sky looks like it’ll open up any minute. Just how I like it.”

“You won’t have to worry about that,” Sam assures him jovially. “You’re not coming.”

Damn it. A small part of him had hoped Sam would forget about that. Or reconsider. “And what will I be doing?”

“Holding down the fort,” Sam says over his shoulder, leading the way to their rooms. “Making sure the bed doesn’t escape. Keeping the TV company.”

“This fucking sucks,” Dean declares. “I still can’t believe you’re benching me, like I’ve never had to fight with one hand keeping my entrails in before.”

“Oh god, Dean, there are so many things wrong with what you just said. Cas, talk some sense into him.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the angel replies. He’s carrying Dean’s bag in one hand and rests his free one against the small of Dean’s back. “You can either stay here on your own, or I will make you.”

Dean gives up. “ _Fine._ But one of you is going to get me some pie.”

***

It begins to rain not an hour later. Sam sighs. He’s wearing a hoodie, but actually making use of it would obstruct his peripheral vision. “This _sucks,_ ” he declares fervently.

Cas looks back at him. “You mentioned you had difficulty locating the Gorgons in Bartonsville during the storms. Yet the myth doesn’t mention anything about the sisters being averse to water.”

Sam nods. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe they’ve just adapted to the fact that generally, humans don’t like to be out in the rain unless they have to. Probably cuts down on a lot of the joggers, hikers, and whatnot.” He makes a face at the muddy ground. “I wish I was fluent in Greek. Or that we could get good Greek books. Or—”

“Sam.”

Something in Cas’s tone makes Sam stops in his tracks. Then he hears it, too: a rustle in the underbrush, barely discernible over the raindrops. It’s either a hiker who doesn’t mind getting his feet wet, or a ravenous Gorgon out for blood. With their luck, it’s the latter. He pulls out his gun and signals Cas. The angel vanishes in a flutter of wings.

He hears the snakes before the Gorgon bursts from the trees, and the warning is all that saves him from her ambush. He gets a shot off, picks off one of the snakes but she barely notices, yellow eyes bright and murderous against her grayish-green skin and filthy tunic. This is the same Gorgon they tangled with two days ago — Sam can see she is missing some snakes. Stheno, he thinks she is.

Cas appears behind her, sword drawn, but she dodges, lithe body feinting around the angel. When her brass claws swipe Cas’s shoulder, the strike burns bright, electrified — sort of how Ruby’s knife cuts deep, a supernatural weapon against supernatural opponents. Cas spins, and Stheno leaps back to avoid his blade.

“Damn it!” Sam snarls to himself, blinking raindrops out of his eyes and holding his gun steady. He waits for an opening, any opening, but Cas and Stheno are dancing around each other like they’d choreographed the fight. Sam hesitates between standing his ground or swapping his gun for the knife and at least trying to be of help.

“Euryale!” Stheno shouts, catching Cas’s sword in her claws.

_Oh, fuck me,_ Sam thinks, and turns around in time to parry a strike with his forearm. Euryale proves to be as strong as her sister, knocking Sam clean off his feet with a precise kick to the gut. Before he can push himself up, he gets a face-full of angel. “Argh!”

“This is not going well,” Cas intones, untangling himself from their mess of limbs.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” Sam quips, eyeing the advancing — very angry — Gorgon sisters. “We gotta get out of here.”

“Retreat does seem prudent,” the angel agrees, and touches two fingers to Sam’s forehead.

The forest and its dangers wink out. Sam feels like he’s falling for one keen moment, then he exhales a shaky breath he doesn’t remember holding, and they are back at the motel, in Dean and Cas’s room.

“What the hell happened?” Dean demands from the bed, shutting off the TV and setting his beer on the table. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Sam grunts, pushing himself up and offering Cas a hand out of habit. Surprisingly, the angel accepts, gaze trained on his bloody shoulder.

“Cas?” Dean prompts, sounding concerned.

“She cut me,” Cas says, sounding marveled.

Sam nods. “Gorgons packed a wallop, that’s for sure. But your vessel will heal up quick, right?”

“No,” Cas shakes his head once, “she _cut_ me.”

Dean slides across the bed with a wince, trying to get a better look at the scratches. “Like … _you_ -you?”

The angel nods, sitting beside Dean and pulling off the trench coat. From what Sam can see, they’re claw marks like any other, but Cas seems spooked. “Will you be all right?” he asks.

“Yes.” Cas glances back up at him. “But how are we to defeat these creatures? My sword barely slowed them down.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam groans. “But at least they won’t find any prey tonight, if the rain keeps up. As for how to kill them, I guess it’s back to the drawing board.” Ugh, he is not looking forward to research after that brawl.

Dean stands up. “Okay, you get started on that. I’ll go get dinner.”

Sam fixes his brother with a stern look. “Dean—”

“Come _on,_ ” Dean pushes it. “Haven’t I been good enough? I just want to go for a freaking walk, man. If I stay in bed any longer, I’m going to go apeshit.”

Sam’s about to protest some more, but Cas interjects, “Some light exercise may be beneficial at this point in your convalescence.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Dean sighs, not quite sarcastically. He looks ready to bound out the door, but Sam forces him to suffer a thorough inspection of his dressings and makes him wear two jackets.

“Don’t be gone long,” Sam tells him. “And don’t go too far.”

“Oh my fucking God, Sam.”

“And I want a Cobb salad.”

***

In all fairness, Dean really doesn’t expect to disobey his family until he wanders too far in search of Sam’s damned salad. He was just going to bring back a Caesar, but Sam knows his salad celebrities and the substitute just wouldn’t fly. So really, this is all Sam’s fault.

So _maybe_ he skirts the edges of town, looking for an elusive diner that catered to his little brother’s _refined_ (wussy) palate. And _maybe_ he decides to case the area, just because he’s curious, not because he plans on running in, guns blazing. And okay, so he may or may not have noticed a conspicuous campfire light in the distance. He’s pretty sure you need a permit to burn leaves, even around here, and the rain isn’t exactly prime conditions for camping in a town this size, so Dean is understandably curious.

Anyway, there’s no point in calling Sam or Cas if it’s nothing; they’re tired and need a breather. He’ll sneak in, scope it out, and if it’s nothing, it’s nothing. If it’s something, maybe they’ll end up with more than what they’ve got.

_Can’t be them, though,_ Dean rationalizes. _All this successful hiding, and then they up and make a fire right at the edge of town?_ It’s just stupid.

He ditches one jacket in favor of better mobility, and weaves into the woods as quietly as possible. At least the falling rain covers some of his rustling. His wounded side is protesting the bending and twisting; this is probably not what Cas had in mind by “light exercise.” The firelight gets closer, closer — and then Dean can see them: three shrouded figures huddled by the warmth. They are nattering softly, sometimes making animated hand signals, and Dean swallows nervously. Three of them. If Medusa has decided to crash this party, they were royally fucked. He backs away, as slowly and silently as he can, gritting his teeth as his wound begins to sting, sore after so much strenuous movement.

“I see you!” one of them calls. She points right at him through the trees and Dean’s heart skips a few beats.

“See who, dearie?” the one on the left wonders, sounding almost … matronly?

“A sweet-looking young man. Come here, dear!” she calls, louder, waving Dean over with a thin, gnarled arm.

He remains rooted to the spot, knowing he won’t be able to outrun them. He definitely won’t be able to fight them. He can see his obituary: WINCHESTER, DEAN: HORRIFICALLY IN POMFRET, SURVIVED BY PISSED-OFF BROTHER, SAM, & ANGELIC SMITING BOYFRIEND, CASTIEL. Then he’d be stuck in Heaven for a while and Cas would just yell his ear off from the radio or something. God, it’s going to be hell.

“Don’t be scared,” the ringleader coos at him, and Dean realizes they haven’t made a move against him. “We aren’t going to hurt you. We just want to know if it always rains like this here.”

Dean blinks once, twice, then shrugs and pushes his way into the clearing. If he’s going to die, it won’t be with talons through his back as he flees. As he gets closer, he can see that the Gorgons, well, _aren’t_.

These three are clad head to toe in gray robes. They could be triplets, but that might be because they are all so old and wrinkly, they just all look alike. The ringleader blinks her one large eye owlishly at him, and he quickly realizes that the other two don’t have eyes at all. Empty sockets stare back at him — empty Cyclops-eye sockets. Dean swallows again, because gross.

Still, Dean makes it a point to be nice to women who aren’t trying to kill him — especially if doing so helps influence any future decisions about whether or not to kill him. “Uh, evening, ladies. W-what about the rain?”

“Dreadful weather,” the ringleader sniffs. “Honestly, it’s done naught but rain down upon us since we arrived. For all the accolades this side of the ocean receives, I thought it would be a more pleasant country.”

“Simply dreadful weather,” the matronly one says. “What are you doing outside in this chill, dearie?”

Dean rubs at the back of his head. “Um, just going for a walk. I saw your fire and I was curious. It’s not good weather. You know. For a camping trip.”

“What’s your name, darling?” the one on the right asks. “You sound handsome. Is he handsome? Give me the eye! I want to look at him.”

“You’ve only just given up the eye!” the ringleader snaps. “You’re being greedy.”

“But you two are boring to look at!” the earnest one protests. “I want to see _him_.” She grabs at her companion, who bats her away effortlessly.

“I wish to see him,” the matron pipes up, reaching blindly for the ringleader. “It’s been hours since I’ve had the eye. Give me the eye!”

They squabble for a few moments, slapping and clawing at each other like teenage girls in a catfight. Dean raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, uh, there’s plenty of me to go around.” _Especially if I’m in little pieces._ A casualty of the strangest fight over a man he has ever seen.

Finally, the ringleader relents, popping the eye out of its socket and handing it off to the matronly one. She shoves it into her own empty socket, and it sounds — gooey, Dean thinks with a wince. That’s the only way to describe it.

“Oh, he is handsome,” she confirms, gleeful. “Oh, but come by the fire, dearie, you are shivering.”

Dean comes closer, but only because he can’t afford to appear rude. “So, who are you?”

The earnest one appears between them, latching onto Dean with one hand and grabbing at the eye with the other. “It’s my turn! I want to see!”

“We are not our sisters, if that is what you fear,” the ringleader answers over the arguing. “We tend to travel together, though, these past few hundred years. However, we do not share the same nature.”

Dean tears his eyes away from the eyeball getting pulled from one socket and shoved into another. “You know the Gorgons?”

“Mm. They are troublesome.”

“Very troublesome,” the earnest one adds, grabbing Dean’s chin to get a better look at him.

“They haven’t been the same since their sister died,” the matronly one puts in.

Dean clears his throat. “Well, they’re actually causing a lot of trouble over here. A lot of innocent people have died because of them.”

“It is what they do,” the ringleader agrees, sagely.

“But you don’t agree,” Dean hazards.

The matronly one gasps. “No, dearie, not at all. But what are we to do? They are true to their nature, as are we to ours.”

Dean looks into the earnest one’s eye. “Thing is, it’s sort of my nature to kill things with their nature. Don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me out a little?”

For a moment, there is silence. Dean holds the eye’s gaze and tries to remain calm.

“They have not been the same since they lost Medusa,” the matronly one reiterates at last. “There was a time kings would dispatch heroes to do away with such monsters.”

“There was a time,” the ringleader concurs. “Very well, young man. What do you wish to know?”

“How to kill them,” Dean replies instantly. “And where to find them.”

“To kill them, you will need an adamantine blade. That is the only thing that can bring harm to them. It is with such a blade that Perseus slew Medusa. As for where to find them…”

The ringleader goes to stand before the fire. The matronly one joins her. The earnest one fishes out the eyeball and shoves it at Dean. “Hold this,” she orders, before joining hands with her sisters. “For this, we need sight beyond sight.”

Dean holds the eyeball at arm’s length, trying not to think about the viscous liquid dripping through his fingers, or about how it smells like it’s been rotting inside wrinkled, withering heads for thousands of years. He watches the grey sisters meditate, watches the fire flicker from orange to green, climb higher and higher and then — it crackles, like a tiny firework, and Dean shields his eyes with his free hand as the smoke dissipates.

The ringleader breaks free, points northwest with a long-nailed finger. “A cave, dug into a hill, covered in moss. They sleep now; they are exhausted from their rigorous hunting.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, sincerely. He hands the eyeball back, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Seriously. You ladies are great.”

The ringleader cradles the eye protectively. “It may be much to ask, because they will not make it easy, but if it is at all possible … make it quick for them. Whatever else they may be, they are our sisters.”

Dean is already backing away. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, before disappearing back into the trees. Not that he’s in a hurry to leave, or anything.

It’s only when he stumbles back into town, extra jacket slung over his arm, that he realizes how long he’s been gone. Actually, the precise moment he realizes how long he’s been gone is when he rounds a corner and is almost bowled over by one Angel of Thursday.

“Shit,” he says under his breath — partly because he feels like an asshole and partly because Cas looks like he is going to fucking smite Dean then and there. “Cas—”

“I’ve been _searching for you_ ,” the angel growls. He rocks forward on his heels, like he’s about to close the gap between them, but he doesn’t move. They don’t — they just don’t, really, outside of the bedroom.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Sam is pacing a hole to Hell,” Cas continues. “He stayed behind in case you returned. I checked every diner, every bar, every gas station—”

“I can—”

“—And _why_ did you not answer your phone?”

Dean blinks, automatically reaching for his cell and glancing at it. “Huh. Must’ve hit the mute button by accident, or something.” He glares at Cas’s expression. “Come on! Maybe I didn’t want my ringtone giving me away.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, of course. “Give you away for what?” Cas demands, and this time he does close the distance between them, one hand curling around Dean’s wrist so tightly it hurts. “For _what?_ ”

“I’ll explain at the motel,” Dean promises. “I swear it’s not as bad as you think. Probably,” he amends, when Cas glares even harder.

Cas’s fingers jab his forehead just a little harder than necessary.

***

Sam’s not as angry as Cas, but he is definitely louder. Dean’s actually glad he’s injured because Sam kind of has to go easy on him. Still, Dean has to sit through the longest, most redundant lecture ever while Sam inspects the damage he’s done to himself and redresses the wound. There’s no reprieve when he retreats to the bathroom for a sponge bath, either, because Cas isn’t letting him out of sight now, and the angel’s anger and disapproval are a crushing weight at his back.

When he emerges from the bathroom in a change of clothes, Sam has given up on his salad and ordered pizza instead. Dean settles on the queen-sized bed to forestall any more bitching about his health, and accepts the slice Sam hands him without a word.

“So,” Sam says tersely, “let’s compare notes. What’d you find?”

Dean tells them about the grey sisters, the adamantine blade, and where the Gorgons are hiding. He’s sure to stress numerous times that he never felt as though he were in any danger, although this doesn’t seem to help much.

‘The Graeae,” Sam says when he’s finished, anger giving way to fascination.

“Huh?”

“Your grey sisters are _the_ Grey Sisters. Sisters, or cousins, to the Gorgons. If you’ve met them and they mentioned the sword, we can probably assume that the information I found about the myth is correct.” Sam gestures vaguely to the laptop. “Perseus had a few things to help him kill Medusa: winged sandals, a mirror shield, the sword, and a helmet that made him turn invisible. They were all gifts from the Olympian gods.”

“So he was all decked out,” Dean muses. “Huh. Well, they only mentioned the sword, but didn’t tell me where to find it.”

“Leave that to me,” Cas says, from his vantage point against the wall. “I have an idea where to look.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “think you can score one by dawn? We can get some sleep, and get the jump on them. You know, like Perseus did.”

“It should be fine,” the angel assures them.

“Then,” Sam starts packing up his things, “see you guys tomorrow.”

“At the ass-crack of dawn,” Dean grumbles. “Of course.”

Sam smirks at him. “The punishment should fit the crime,” he cajoles on his way out.

And now that Sam’s gone … Dean takes a deep breath, “Cas—” The angel’s already headed for the door. “Cas, wait.” But Cas only locks it, the deadbolt sliding into place with finality. “Cas,” Dean tries again, “I really am sorry.”

The angel turns around, pinning Dean to the bed with his glare. “Do you know, Dean?” he begins, voice low and dangerous. “Do you know what’s happening to me? How would you feel, Dean, if you woke up one morning without one of your legs? To lose something you’ve had your whole life — just like that?”

“Cas…”

“I was bested today not by an angel, not by a demon, but by a lowly monster of an old myth.” He’s shaking visibly now — with anger? Frustration? “I am not … what I used to be, and every day, I lose more and more of what I was. I keep wondering how I am supposed to protect you.”

“You don’t—”

“And then,” Cas overrides him, more fiercely, “you do something like this. Do you know what I felt? _Do you know?_ ”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut — thinks of Sammy disappearing for a week, running off with Ruby, or being hunted by his supposed allies. “Yes,” he tells Cas, emphatically. “I do.” He fixes the angel with a look he hopes relays how sorry he really is.

It works; Cas is across the room in an instant, shoving him against the pillows and fixing their mouths together. As straitlaced and no-nonsense as Cas is, he kisses like he’s drowning: short, quick gasps; desperate bites; and then he goes under, long and deep, pulling Dean along.

The trench is a pain in the ass. Dean pulls at it, impatient, and for someone who claims to be losing his mojo, their clothes disappear way faster than should be normal. He doesn’t care, though. He rakes short nails down Cas’s back, pulling him closer, closer, clo— “Ow!”

“Careful,” Cas murmurs against his neck, fingers whispering over the wound in his side. “You are,” he dips to lick Dean’s nipple, “very impatient.”

Dean grips the back of Cas’s head, fingers tangling in the angel’s short hair. “No lectures.”

“No,” Cas agrees. “No lectures.” He moves, one hand drifting between Dean’s thighs, the other worming its way beneath the pillows in search of lube. He finds one packet, brushes it against Dean’s mouth, and Dean rips it open with his teeth because that, friends, is how you entice a guy.

Cas’s palm is pure and smooth, unmarred by calluses and other human imperfections. His grip is strong and firm as it strokes, and Dean undulates, reaching up to grip the headboard. He tightens his hold when Cas releases his cock — _unfair_ — and inhales shakily when Cas pushes at the leg on his good side. Dean cooperates, bending his knee, then letting Cas slide a pillow under his hips. Cas catches his eye, checking in, and Dean gives him the barest of nods.

One slick finger circles his opening. Dean hisses when it plunges in — cool and intrusive, then warm and delicious, expertly fucking him open like only Cas knows how. Cas’s middle finger slides in next and he goes deeper, twisting, scissoring, searching, _finding._

When Cas touches his prostate it lights every single fucking nerve ending in his body on _fire._ He lets go of the headboard and grips the sheets instead, tossing his head upon the pillow because Cas is a deliberate, toppy bastard and knows exactly what he’s doing. Dean shuts his eyes and moves with the fingers, wanting more, more — barely noticing when Cas adds another.

Then the smug fucker starts _talking._ “It doesn’t matter what else I lose,” he murmurs, low timbre rolling over Dean’s senses and right to his cock. He risks a glance; shuts his eyes again in the face of that icy-hot blue gaze. He wants to tell Cas to shut up, just shut up — it’s too much already. He can’t, he _can’t_.

“As long as I can have this,” Cas goes on, dropping a kiss to Dean’s knee. “It doesn’t matter what else they take from me. So long as they leave me this. After all I’ve given, all I’ve lost, all I’ve sacrificed … I’m allowed this one thing.” He says it calmly, resolutely, like he isn’t staring at Dean so intently that Dean can’t bear to meet his eyes — like he isn’t three fingers deep and gripping Dean’s thigh possessively. Dean arches, back bowing up from the bed until his wound protests, biting his lip to stifle moans he did not authorize.

“Cas,” he rasps, helpless, and wraps his bent leg around the angel’s back, enclosing him should he dare even think about abandoning this.

“Hmm,” Cas replies, no more an answer than Dean’s had been a question. He is focused on his task, meticulous and merciless, fingers rubbing over Dean’s prostate and teasing him into a frenzy.

“Cas,” he says again, because it’s all he _can_ say, “Cas, Cas,” like a desperate litany. The angel never stops fucking into him, slick digits curving in and out, and they strike _gold_ every perfect time and Dean’s cock _aches_ for it.

Cas gives it to him, shifting to curl his free hand around the base, murmurs, “This, no one will take from me. What lies beneath me is _mine_ ,” and holy shit that’s hot, and that is _it._

Dean comes with a choked sob, thrusting up into Cas’s hand even as he tries pushing back onto the fingers. Cas shushes him with nonsense — “I’ve got you, it’s all right,” — and when it’s over and he’s a sweaty, quivering mess in the sheets, Cas fetches a warm washcloth to clean them up.

“No,” he says when Dean makes a halfhearted attempt to return the favor. It stings a bit, until Cas laces their fingers together and fits against him like a puzzle piece. “Enough excitement for one day. I can wait.”

Dean accepts this with a nod, eyelids fluttering shut. “Are you going to find out about the sword?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Cas affirms, pulling the covers over them. “After you’re asleep.”

***

Sam is beating on his door before the sun is even _considering_ coming up, because he is being one of those annoyingly chipper morning people, shouting “Rise and shine!”

Dean retaliates by answering the door naked.

“Augh! God, Dean!”

“You can’t go knocking down doors at all hours, Sammy,” Dean lectures around a yawn. “Never know what you’ll be interrupting.”

Sam is holding the muffin box in front of his face, a coffee tray in his other hand. “Please put on some pants. Where’s Cas?”

“Dunno,” Dean replies over his shoulder, heading back to the bed to change. “Said he’d take care of the sword last night.”

“I did,” the angel greets them, holding a simple leather scabbard in both hands.

Sam lowers the muffin box and kicks the door shut. “Where’d you get that?”

“Greece.”

“You went to Greece without me?” Dean asks, pulling on a shirt. “How’d you find the sword?”

“The Patron Goddess of Athens was most accommodating.” Cas pauses, glancing almost shyly in Dean’s direction. “She seemed to enjoy my company.”

Sam starts to laugh. “Oh my god, she thought he was cute. Dean, _Dean_ — you’re up against Pallas Athena, how’s it feel?”

“It feels like _shut up._ ” Dean grabs the sword, testing its weight. It unsheathes with a song, gleaming bright silver even in the dismal light of the motel room. “This thing is awesome. Perseus used this?”

“I believe it is the same blade,” Cas replies. “I promised Athena I would return it after Stheno and Euryale were slain.”

“Oooo, second date,” Sam whistles.

Dean gives him a look. “Bitch, what the hell?”

But Sam only snickers, dancing over to the table to divide up breakfast. “So I should be able to swing that sword no problem.”

Dean makes a face. “Who said you get to use it?”

“Well, you aren’t,” Sam points out, gesturing vaguely at him. “You’re still healing.”

“You’re in no condition,” Cas adds.

“Not what you thought last night,” Dean needles.

“Ew,” Sam protests.

“I’ll be wielding the sword,” Cas states, taking it back from Dean. “A few millennia of experience should be more than enough.”

“But you’re faster than me,” Sam argues. “I need you to flit around and take them down quick — then I can put an end to them with one strike.”

“I’m at least coming with you this time,” Dean persists. “I did find out where they were hiding, you know.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we know. You’re a god among men.”

Cas mutters something unsavory.

“Okay,” Sam sighs, “okay, here’s the plan: Cas, forward. Take ‘em down. Dean, defense. Don’t let either of them out of that cave. And I,” he hefts the sword, “get to be the executioner.”

“It’s the part you were born to play, Sammy,” Dean applauds.

***

The Graeae were true to their word. Dean leads Sam and Cas northwest through the quiet wood, and barely an hour out they find what must be the Gorgons’s hideaway. The forest is mostly silent as it is, but there is a definite chill in the air as they come closer to the cave.

Then there’s the smell. The faint scent of rancid meat wafts up from the mouth of the little cave. Sam can taste it, feel it stick in his throat, and his mouth twists in distaste. It reeks of death.

“Damn,” Dean breathes. Sam glances at his brother; Dean looks a little green. “They’ve starting bringing their kill home?”

“Smells like it.” Sam scans the area around them. Satisfied that the coast is clear, he unsheathes the sword, tossing the scabbard aside. “Let’s go.”

Mindful not to snap any dead twigs beneath their feet, Sam, Dean, and Cas edge over to the entrance. Sam catches Dean’s eye. _Stay here,_ he mouths. Dean grips his shotgun a little more tightly, but nods.

Sam and Cas inch forward, each step an exercise in stealth. Sam keeps the broadsword leveled in front of him, two hands gripping the hilt. Cas’s slimmer, more elegant sword is poking out from his sleeve, ready. Normally, every hunter instinct in Sam would protest being bottlenecked in a cave like this. Only, it worked for Perseus — and Perseus didn’t have an angel backing his play or a brother with a sawed-off manning the door.

The cave isn’t deep, nor is it particularly dark, carved mostly from the thick roots of a tree’s mound, allowing for beams of sunlight to creep in. When they reach the heart of the cavern, the smell of spoiled flesh hits Sam like a punch in the face. Stheno and Euryale sleep deeply on a bed of leaves and moss, amidst bones and rotting cadavers, almost peaceful. Sam locks eyes with Cas, preparing to shatter the tableau.

Euryale’s snakes see them first, and hiss a furious warning. Then it all goes to hell and everything happens at once.

Cas darts forward, engaging Euryale as she leaps to her feet. The initial plan was to swiftly overpower and strike down one sister at a time, but it looks like they’ll have to switch to Plan B. Stheno is on her feet, fixing her predatory stare on Sam for the third time, snakes writhing and hissing atop her head. He flexes his grip on his sword, watching her gaze flicker to it for a second. He thinks she recognizes it.

“Hurry, Sam,” Cas calls to him, sounding strained. Sam allows himself a quick glance. Cas is keeping Euryale at bay, sparks flying as they duel with skill tempered with centuries of experience.

Sam turns his attentions back to Stheno, swinging the broadsword as hard as he can against her claws. Brass twangs against adamantine; she swings her other talons and Sam parries, but the force knocks him onto his bottom. _God, they’re strong._

Strong or not, rock salt stings like a bitch when you get it in the eyes — and Dean has both excellent aim and impeccable timing. Stheno shrieks, clawing at her own face, and Sam moves, running her through, pushing her back into the dirt. She gurgles and chokes, lifeblood bubbling up from the wound. He uses her as leverage to stand, then pulls the blade from her torso and brings it down again. It hums when it cuts through Stheno’s flesh, a death knell.

_“STHENO!”_

Sam leaps back as Euryale breaks away from Cas and drops to her knees by her sister. Sam braces himself, but Euryale only cradles Stheno’s still-hissing head, cooing at it in what must be ancient Greek. Sam can’t understand the words, but he knows what this is. Dean knows what this is.

This is the grief of one who has lost everything.

So Sam waits. Cas follows his example and stands down, though the angel is ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Behind them, Dean has another round locked and loaded, but he’s holding steady — waiting.

And Sam waits still, watches Euryale brush her sister’s dying hair out of her eyes and drop a kiss upon her forehead. He waits while she sets Stheno’s head back down and closes her sister’s eyelids. Then she draws herself up on her knees, standing tall even in submission, and catches Sam’s eye. She bares her throat to him, and holds his gaze.

Sam returns the honor, keeping it while he swings. It’s as quick and painless as he knows how to make it.

“Well done,” Cas says after a moment.

The snakes are still writhing, still hissing. Sam turns away from them. “I told you to stay by the entrance,” he scolds Dean, half-joking.

“You tell me lots of things,” his brother dismisses, shouldering his gun. “Gave you your opening, didn’t I?”

Sam gives him a wan smile. “Yeah.” He glances around at this cave filled with death. “Salt and burn just to be safe?”

“Just to be safe,” Dean affirms.

When they finally leave the cave, even the snakes are silent.

***

Cas returns from Greece as Dean and Sam are packing up the car. “Athena extends her gratitude for taking care of the Gorgons,” he says.

Sam closes the trunk. “Did you at least clean the sword before returning it?”

“No. I wanted her to see the proof of our deed.” Cas cocks his head. “She was pleased, and insists that we seek her out should we ever need her assistance again.”

Sam smirks. “I’m sure.”

Dean elbows him. “Quit it. Cas, just FYI, we’re heading to Bobby’s for a day or two. If you wanna tag along, or, you know, meet us there.”

“I must continue the search for my Father,” Cas replies, taking a step toward Dean.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Sam quips, ducking into the passenger side.

“Subtle,” Dean calls after him, teasing but grateful. “Don’t be a stranger, Cas,” he says more quietly.

Cas moves close enough to whisper in his ear. “If you’re still at Bobby’s in two days’s time, I will join you.”

“Deal,” Dean promises, breaking their rule and pressing their cheeks together. “See you in two days.”

Then Cas is gone, but Dean doesn’t feel bereft. Actually, he feels pretty damn good, and grins as he climbs behind the wheel.

“Sure you’re good to drive?” Sam asks.

The engine turns over with a satisfying rumble. “Never better, Sammy,” Dean assures him, and shifts her into gear.

 

~end


End file.
